


So We Burned

by 4mation



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3992293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4mation/pseuds/4mation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars,<br/>We dreamed up false gods, great demons<br/>Who could cross the Veil into the waking world,<br/>Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you.”<br/>- Threnodies, 1:8</p><p>When Evelyn Trevelyan is pulled from the Fade by a woman clad in light, she knows that her destiny has been set before her: bring peace to the world, deliver justice to the meek, and seal the Breach to save the world. It is the Maker’s divine will.<br/>Now if only the Maker would explain why Andraste saw fit to pair her with her very own Shartan: the elven mage spy, Ellana Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Their Blood

**Author's Note:**

> My first Dragon Age fanfiction, and an idea I've been toying around with for a while.  
> Note that the multiple pairings are there simply because I have no idea what the 'endgame' will be for this fic, so I'm going to let it evolve in that sense.  
> Please leave reviews; I promise I'll love you 4ever. (Note: updates will probably take forever as well).  
> Enjoy.

  

_“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”_

\- Benedictions, 4:11

 

Evelyn tugged at her collar, trying to pull it loose of the gorget that chafed at her throat. Templar armour was in equal parts ornamental as it was practical, the plate light but tough. In truth, Evelyn missed her hunting leathers, well-worn from many a trip into the forests around Ostwick, toughened and inscribed from quillback skin, light as a summer’s wind but tough as an autumn storm. However, delegates of the Chantry were expected to have a certain prestige about them, and a squad of Templars dressed in their parade best standing at attention was apparently the message Mother Angelica hoped to send: disciplined, united, strong, just.

Apparently, personal comforts weren’t high on the list of priorities for the Chantry’s enforcers.

Still, Evelyn couldn’t complain too much. While the armour wasn’t particularly well-fitting, having been hastily assembled in time for the Conclave, it was made of silverite, and thus afforded her the best protection gold could buy while remaining remarkably light. An accordance offered to the officers, Evelyn suspected, spotting the reflection of the Knight-Corporals assembled behind her in Knight-Captain Ioren’s shield. Paragon’s Luster really wasn’t the most comfortable or most protective of metals, but it served its purpose well enough for the newer Templars. Still better than the cheap iron plate given to the recruits at the back of the parade. Evelyn shook her head at the memory of those awful, hellish weeks which had made up her brief internship in the Templar Order. No sleep, cheap equipment, pious teachers, grumpy Knight-Sergeants, hostile mages; it had almost been enough to make Evelyn miss her days as a lay sister at the Ostwick Chantry.

Even now, standing in rank with the Knight-Sergeants, the memory was enough to make Evelyn feel a little bad for standing amongst these anointed Templars who had earned their place as officers within the holy order; they had paid blood, sweat, tears, and lyrium to reach where they were. All Evelyn had to offer was birth, looks and talent, and she knew which of those had seen her carted off to the armoury for a set of ceremonial armour. With her brothers and sisters in Nevarra, Antiva, Tantervale, Orlais and Starkhaven, her noble lord father had summoned her to his solar, slapped a writ in her hand, and then given her a few hours to pack. When she’d protested, asking why her already-Chantry siblings couldn’t go, wouldn’t they be better suited, Father I don’t even know half of the verses in the Chant, he’d merely assured her that her horse was already saddled and her retinue ready to leave at her word, before dismissing her with a casual wave of his hand.

Bann Trevelyan had always been talented at selective hearing.

Knight-Commander Gerald hadn’t been too impressed by Bann Trevelyan’s letter of application either, judging by the way he’d glowered at her after reading the terms of her service, but apparently the Maker saw more sense in gold than honour. Even Templars needed to buy food and equipment when the Chantry was too busy dealing with things like mage rebellions across the world to pay mind to little things like collecting tithes and providing supplies. So, with his gaze burning a hole in her highborn forehead, Gerald had agreed to admit her into the Templar Order, including a fancy induction ceremony introducing her to her future brothers and sisters as Evelyn Trevelyan, Knight-Sergeant of the Templar Order, and Champion of the Just. Evelyn didn’t miss the notable lack of a ‘ _ser_ ’, even though Templars automatically earned the title upon admission into the Order. Evidently, Evelyn was expected to earn her title and knighthood the way other nobles did: good connections paired with either noble deeds or a fat purse.

Neither of which was likely in the foreseeable future, Evelyn reflected gloomily, as the great doors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes began to creak open. Father had gifted her a chest of gold to spend on personal comforts, but it, along with most of her personal items, had been left in her quarters at the Ostwick Circle when the Knight-Commander had informed them that they were to march to Haven in Fereldan for the Conclave, and that they were expected to travel light, so as to make good speed. Only the essentials were to be packed. Why ceremonial parade armour in addition to standard-duty armour was an essential, Evelyn would never understand.

Evelyn touched at her throat again, this time fingering the amulet underneath the gorget. A present from Morris, Master of Game at Equus Point, the amulet had the Trevelyan coat-of-arms etched on one side, the proud horse rearing high. But on the other side, painstakingly carved and by no means elegantly, was a crude sketching of Justinia, disciple of Andraste. A gift that was both a comfort and a promise.

 

“Surprisingly pious of you, Morris,” Evelyn had joked as she unstrung her bow. “It seems that everyone in this castle is obsessed with the Chantry in one way or another.”

The old man had laughed, a big, bawdy bark. “I sing the Chant as often as any man does, true, but that’s not what this is, girl.” As was often the assumed privilege of the old who knew the young when they were younger, Morris rarely if ever referred to her as ‘Lady Trevelyan’. Instead it was ‘girl’, or ‘lass’, or ‘bugger off and stop taking the dogs hunting without telling me you wretch’, but always with that fond twinkle in his eye. “Do you know what that amulet is made of?”

“Wood would be my first guess. It would.” Evelyn had replied, delighting in the cheery banter.

Morris had laughed again, shaking his head. “You would be right, lass. It is wood. But not just any wood. No, this is ironwood, bought from them Dalish. I was meaning to carve a new shield for Ser , but found I had a little left over. So, here it is. I decided to make something special out of it for you. Hope that you appreciate it. Broke quite a couple daggers trying to carve into ironwood.”

Evelyn had turned the amulet over in her hands, a new respect for the rough artwork.

“Being the sentimental old granddad you are, I imagine that you’ve a reason for blessing me with this token?” Evelyn had teased.

Morris had chortled as he took her quiver from her.

“Aye, you know me too well lass. So, yes, you’d be right in thinking that way. This is a gift meant to have you weep joyful tears at my thoughtfulness.” He’d taken the amulet from her and held it in front of her, showing both sides. “You know who and what these are?”

Evelyn had made a great show of looking hard. “On the one side is the arms of my house, the great House Trevelyan, one of the noblest and important-est houses in all of Ostwick. It is rarely mentioned elsewhere in the Free Marches, much to my lord father’s discontent and my great-aunt’s ruinous envy. Upon it is the horse, our chosen sigil, selected because of it is noble, yet hard-working, both gentle and fearsome, and because all the impressive animals had already been taken. On the other side, there appears to be some monkey dressed up in imitation of Blessed Andraste.”

Morris had swatted playfully at her with a pair of leather gloves. “See if you can draw any better, gal. I’ve seen your attempts. But if you must know, this is Justinia.”

“Our Most Holy?” Evelyn had asked. She’d pulled off her sweat- and grass-stained surcoat, handing it off to one of the servants passing by. “Somehow, despite her age, I’ve been assured that our Divine doesn’t have quite the same resemblance as your blasphemy.”

Morris had rolled his eyes. “Maker save me, it breaks my heart to think of all that time you spent as a lay sister. Did you learn nothing during your time at the Chantry?” He held up the amulet again, holding it close to her. “This, lass, is Justinia, disciple of Andraste, freed slave, and close friend to the Maker’s wife.”

“You mean the one nobody really remembers nor cares about? She’s barely in the Chant at all.” Evelyn had commented as she tried pulling twigs out of her long brown hair. She’d been hoping to cut it, but Father had refused. No doubt long hair helped her look prettier. It did cover up the nasty scar on her temple, so Evelyn wasn’t too upset with the ever-oppressive influence of Bann Trevelyan, but it was very impractical in the woods.

Morris had nodded knowingly. “Aye, you’re right, lass. And that’s why I carved her. Because she’s not too dissimilar from you.”

Evelyn had given him an odd look at that. “Was Justinia an archer? Beautiful? Constantly heckled by her master-at-arms for setting arrows on fire?”

“No, girl. She’s like you because people forget about her.”

Evelyn had stood up at that, twigs forgotten. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like where this conversation is going?”

Morris had leaned forward, his expression warm and understanding. “Look, gal. I know that you’re not too happy with your lot in life. Youngest child, sixth in line, with no prospects of marriage. Nothing but the Chantry or Templar life ahead of you, a life already led by Jenna and Percival and Harwill. You’re not like to become a Sister anytime soon, so I’ll bet that your lord father’s planning to send you to the Templars instead. A noble cause if ever there was one, but somehow I get the feeling that you won’t be too happy with that life. You’d always be looking for something more.”

Evelyn had bit her lip, looked at the ground. Bitterness wasn’t a good look on her, so she’d held back her resentments for most of her life, choosing easy smiles and light jests. But Morris had always been there for her, a father and mentor for when Bann Trevelyan had been too preoccupied with his work. “It just… doesn’t seem fair, you know? Everything that House Trevelyan is expected to do’s already been done. All my brothers and sisters have already started their lives going to greater things, and I’m expected to just follow in their footsteps. I just… I don’t know, I mean, I love them, most of the time. But I wish that Father would give me the opportunity to do something else. I could do it. I know I could. I don’t know what, but I could.”

“Aye, I know what you mean.” Morris had said. He’d clasped her shoulder, looked at her with that encouraging smile. “Lass, ever since I grew up in Starkhaven, I’ve been all over the Free Marches, and I’d be hard-pressed to find someone as talented with a bow as you. Trouble is, few folks give archery the respect it deserves. It’s not all fancy bladework or shiny shields or giant fireballs, so people yawn and say it’s boring and easy. But let me tell you this, girl: with your bow and arrow, you’re ten times the soldier any of your warrior siblings are. You’re also good with them poisons and daggers too, and heaven knows you’ve broken into my workshop enough times for me to know that you’re a frightful good at picking locks too.”

“What does any of that matter, anyway?” Evelyn had said, irritated, and disgusted with herself at her own irritation. “All I’ll be doing is just standing in line with a bunch of other Templar archers and shooting arrows at mages anyway.”

“I think you’re looking at this all wrong, girl.” Morris had held up the amulet again, showing Evelyn the side with Justinia. The _original_ Justinia. “See this girl? She was a slave, a nothing, destined to die in service to the Imperium. She had nothing ahead of her. Until one day, Andraste comes and frees her, and says ‘You’ve been told you’re a nothing all your life, you’ve felt like a nothing all your life. But here, I’m giving you a chance to be a something.’ And you know what? Justinia took that chance. And so, she went from being a slave to being one of Andraste’s best friends and disciples, and stood by her throughout the whole war.”

Evelyn had raised her eyebrow at that. “You do know that Justinia _dies_ with Andraste, right?”

Morris had shrugged. “We all die, lass. Some of us at least get to choose how we die. Justinia, she chose to die doing something. Being a something. History has largely forgotten her, true. We remember all the others from the Chant. Andraste, Hessarian, Maferath, Havard, Hector. Even the ones we’re not supposed to remember, like Shartan. Justinia is left by the wayside, yes. But do you think that she cared? She got to be _someone_. She could have chosen to run and hide when Andraste freed her. Lots of slaves did, nobody would have cared. But she took the challenge, and she made something of it. And now, it’s your turn, girl.”

Evelyn had looked at him, confused. “What?”

“The Chantry is calling to you. Andraste’s calling to you. You get to be one of her holy warriors, a Templar, to fight the injustices of the world. Are you going to duck your head and worry and complain about how unfair it is, how people remember everyone else instead? Or are you going to take the challenge head on, and do something that’s worth remembering?”

“My lady?” Evelyn had turned around to see her father’s steward, Timeon, at the door to the workshop. “Your lord father requests your immediate presence. He has urgent need of you.”

Morris had leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Seems that your time’s come, girl. Better go see your lord father. No doubt it’s important. Here, take the amulet, and remember what we talked about. Might be you’ll find the answer sooner than you think.” As she’d stood up, confused, wondering what her father needed, Morris had bowed low, smiling gently. “My lady Evelyn.”

 

It was that memory, the memory of Morris showing both his affection for the girl Evelyn as well as his respect for the lady Trevelyan, that warmed Evelyn during the cold nights in the Frostback Mountains, that straightened her back beneath the weight of her bow, quiver and armour, that kept her marching alongside men and women who didn’t know her and yet resented her all the same, for her birth and her bow and her station. As the doors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes opened fully before them, letting loose the noise and light and warmth of countless individuals gathered for a tense truce, Evelyn couldn’t help touch at her amulet again.

If she was ever to make something of herself, if she was ever to start down the road to prominence, if she was ever going to be able to look in the mirror and think “This is someone. This is someone more than the cheeky, forgettable youngest child of a semi-important Bann. This is someone who’s going to do great things”…

If she was going to be someone, then this was the place to do it. If she was going to leave her mark on history, if she was going to be remembered, what better place to start than here? What could possibly be more important than the Conclave called by Divine Justinia herself, to determine the future for not only mages and Templars, but for all of Thedas?

Knight-Commander Gerald held up a clenched fist at the very front of the column. Then, he signalled forward, and as one the Templar Order marched forward to determine what would become of their fate.

And Lady Knight-Sergeant Evelyn Trevelyan marched with them.

 

 


	2. Those Who Wander

 

_“Many are those who wander in sin,_

_Despairing that they are lost forever.”_

\- Transfigurations, 10:1

 

These _shemlen_ were horribly inefficient.

Sitting in the rafters high above the main auditorium, Ellana took a bite from the apple she’d swiped from the kitchens. Chewing thoughtfully, she peered down at the assembled crowd, as the _shemlen_ leaders squabbled and bickered over every tiny detail, wanting everything, compromising nothing. Apparently, correctness was determined by volume, and thus everyone was shouting at each other at the tops of their voices, trying to make their opinion heard above all others, before the Divine in her funny hat would call for quiet, and the Qunari security would bang the butts of their polearms on the floor. Then, a relative, murmuring quiet would fall for a few minutes, before it would rise in a drone until everyone was shouting at each other again.

Ellana nudged her companion with her toe, nodding at the assembly beneath them.

“Are things like this for your people too, _durgen’len_?”

Cadash laughed at that, a deep, rumbling chuckle.

“When my people all get together like this, it’s usually to get everyone roaring drunk. Then, if it’s a gathering of rival families, it’s so that all the roaring drunk people can stab each other to death. Might be different for the caste-obsessed nug-humpers down in Orzammar, but the Carta doesn’t usually deal with messy negotiations like this. In general, it tends to be ‘Here are the terms, take the deal or take my axe in your head’.” Tucking his whetstone back into his pocket, Cadash tapped at the edge of his dagger lightly, checking its sharpness. “And what about for you elves? Do the hunters and elders all crawl over each other trying to get their say?”

Ellana chuckled at the thought, imaging Keeper Deshanna in the Divine’s silly headdress.

“Generally, our Keeper and our _hahren_ will discuss amongst themselves, and then announce the decision to the clan. It’s quick, easy, and efficient.”

“If only all life’s problems could be solved so easily,” Cadash sighed as he sheathed his dagger into a hidden sheathe strapped beneath his armpit. “Just lock all the decision-makers in one room and don’t let them out until they make a decision. Hungry people tend to make up their minds quickly.”

Ellana let out a low laugh, keeping her voice soft even though she highly doubted that the _shemlen_ could hear her over their own noise.

“Maybe we ought to swipe all the food so the Conclave can be done with. I don’t want to be in these freezing mountains for a second longer than I have to. I miss my clan.”

“Typical elf, always dreaming of your forests,” Cadash snorted. “Me, I want to stay here as long as I can. I’ve already off-loaded my cargo, so once the Conclave’s done, I’ve got nothing to look forward to other than my dear old Dasher, may the Stone crush the old blighter.”

“Good news for you, then. I’m willing to bet that the Conclave will only be over when there are icicles dangling from my ears.” With a sigh, Ellana crunched into her apple. “If the _shemlen_ all decide to kill each other, you dwarves can have the mountains. Elgar’nan, the things I do for my Keeper.”

“Aw, is the widdle Fwirst mad at her Kweeper? Pwoor prissy elf, having to tough it out in the mountains like a weal warrior when she wants to fwolic in the fowest. Pwoor elf!”

Ellana shoved Cadash, smiling indulgingly.

“Careful, dwarf. I might not be able to set your species on fire, but I can still push you off lots of high things. For someone of your stature, I’m sure that stairs are a daily menace you have to conquer.”

Cadash put a hand over his heart and swooned dramatically.

“You wound me, Lavellan. And here I thought we were building a genuine friendship, an alliance of elves and dwarves to take over the world when the humans inevitably cock the world up again.”

Ellana laughed as she tossed her apple core over her shoulder.

“Consider it a deal, _durgen’len_. Shush, now. The Divine’s about to speak.”

“Goodie.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oi! Elf!”

Ellana froze. The only reason someone would directly call out to another person by their race was if they intended to make a confrontation out of it. In the polished reflection of a Qunari’s armour she spotted a human merchant striding towards her. Although the reflection distorted the image, he seemed irritated.

Confrontational, irritated human shouting at an elf? This could get very ugly, very fast.

Ellana’s fingers tingled, wishing for a staff. She was dressed in Circle robes she’d lifted from the washing lines in the camps outside Haven, but she hadn’t managed to find any spare staves. Her own staff she’d left with the rest of her Dalish things in a hollow tree across the frozen lake; even in Circle robes, anybody who saw her vallaslin and a heartwood staff was sure to put two and two together.

Still, lack of a staff didn’t mean an absolute lack of magic. Electricity sparked around the tips of Ellana’s fingers. On the one hand, any human who caught her was sure to wonder why a Dalish was at the Conclave. If what she’d heard about the Chantry was true, “interrogation” was the last thing she wanted to deal with.

On the other hand, at a peace conference full to the brim with paranoid Templars and fuming mages, a lightning bolt to someone’s face could just as easily cause the whole world to burn down around Thedas’s ears, pointy or round.

“Yes, you. I see you over there, pretending not to hear me. Come over here, knife-ear!”

And the tone of that _shem_ was so arrogantly superior that Ellana was just about ready to turn around and blast him onto his stupid _shem_ arse, when the merchant walked right past her, not even stopping to glance at her slight hooded figure. He was pointing and gesturing quite empathetically at a redheaded flat-ear, who was cowering a little beneath his admonishments. Ellana breathed a sigh of relief, then instantly felt angry at her relief. Just because it was a flat-ear didn’t mean the human was any less of a prick.

“You’ve got that look in your eye again,” Cadash chirped as he appeared by Ellana’s elbow, munching on something which looked suspiciously like a nug’s hind leg.

“What look? And you’re not supposed to be talking to me, by the way. Super-secret Carta black market and super-secret Dalish spy, remember?”

“Fun thing about being so low to the ground, all you big people never seem to notice me,” Cadash popped the last chunk of meat into his mouth and wiped the grease off his lips with the back of his gloved hand. “And you’ve got the ‘First of the Dalish, last to submit, go forth and smite the human oppressors’ look in your eye again.”

Ellana gave the merchant a few more seconds of the evil eye before turning away to look at her unexpected ally. “It just infuriates me. The _shemlen_ going around, talking down to elves, lording it over everyone like they own everything.”

“Technically, the humans do own everything,” Cadash pointed out unhelpfully. “On the surface, anyway. Even the Qunari don’t officially own Par Vollen. They’re technically still invaders.”

“How did it get to this?” Ellana asked. Huffing, she crossed her arms and leaned against a pillar. She tugged her hood lower over her face, tugging it this way and that to make sure her ears didn’t jab the fabric into conspicuous points. “The humans rule the entire continent, but the only time they ever do anything is when _their_ stability’s at risk. And to none other than their own mages and Templars, I might add.”

Cadash shrugged, leaning back to blend into the shadows with the ease only an accomplished criminal could.

“If it makes you feel better, I think that we’re getting near the end of the first part of negotiations, at least. The last of the envoys have arrived. A bunch of Templars from the Free Marches, representatives from the Circle at Serault, a token delegation from Antiva, even some Grey Wardens. I even heard that the Right Hand of the Divine just arrived as well in Haven. Once she and her witness make the climb up here, we’ll have everyone.”

“That can’t be everyone,” Ellana looked at Cadash with surprise. “The Grand Enchanter hasn’t arrived yet. Neither has the Lord Seeker.”

“Yeah, while you were out here being all righteously Dalish, I was sneaking around in the rookery. Found letters addressed to the Divine. Looks like both of them are a no-show. They’ve sent spokesmen in their places, Knight-Commander Janeth and First Enchanter Parril. Both big names, so at least they’re showing that they do take it seriously.”

“Not seriously enough to actually show up, it seems.” Ellana grumbled. “I can’t believe these people. The Divine calls a peace summit and they don’t even turn up? What is _wrong_ with this lot?”

“Hey, it’s hard to blame them. For all they know, this could be a trap.”

Ellana gave Cadash an exasperated look.

“Really? The Chantry, whose only military force split and ran off, will set a trap?”

“Not the Divine. The other lot. If I was a Templar or mage, I’d be willing to trust the Divine (well, this Divine at least). I wouldn’t be so carefree with the other lot, though. If I was a war leader, I’d be willing to sacrifice a couple of my people to take out the leadership of the other side.”

Ellana kneaded her temples with her knuckles.

“I don’t know what’s worse, that you could think of all this, or that they probably did too.”

“Hey, scum of the criminal underworld here, remember? That’s only slightly less dishonorable than a politician.”

The two stood in companionable silence, watching as the various parties bustled back and forth in the antechamber. Great braziers blazed, but while their roaring flames did an admirable job of keeping the biting Frostback chill at bay, nothing could be done for the frosty diplomacy of the assembled delegates. Templars stood together, gauntleted arms folded as they glared across the hall at the mages huddled together around a fire, magically conjured with the pure intent of spite, Ellana suspected. Around the hall, Qunari mercenaries stood at attention, grips tightening on their spears whenever members of different factions got close to one another. A few merchants, who Ellana suspected were involved with the lyrium trade, were gathered around a brazier, showing each other scrolls of parchment and muttering to one another as they scratched at their numbers and tried to unfreeze their inkwells. Some Grey Wardens, in their distinctive blue and silver, stood nearby, talking with one of the merchants. Ellana suspected that the Wardens were interested as to how the Conclave’s resolutions would affect their recruitment from the Circles.

And scattered throughout the crowd, candle-like in their white-and-red uniforms, Chantry priests moved about, many reciting from the Chant of Light, but an equal number speaking quietly to one another in hushed voices.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Cadash muttered.

“Yup,” Ellana replied.

The tension was cracking the icy politeness in the room, spidery fractures threatening to drop the whole Conclave into the freezing waters. With the Right Hand of the Divine and her firsthand witness, rumored to be one of the Champion’s closest friends, the Conclave was reaching critical. The fate of the Circles hung on their testimony, and the finger of blame could finally settle, be it on Templar negligence and brutality or mage selfishness and irresponsibility.

Everyone knew it, too. The restlessness was palpable. People shifted, stood, paced, sat back down, shuffled to a side, stood up again, glared across the hall at their rivals, looked at the floor, glanced back at the doors leading to the Divine’s personal quarters, waiting for her to remerge. This latest intermission would last only until the Right Hand made it up the mountain.

If only the Seeker could climb just a bit faster.

Ellana suddenly stood straight, pushing off the pillar. Cadash looked at her, surprised.

“What’s with you?”

“I’m tired of waiting,” Ellana decided. “If I can be there when the Seeker makes her report, I’ll have a lot more information to send back to my clan with my next bird, and I won’t have to just sit around and wait for the Conclave to make a decision. Besides, who knows what the Divine will choose to hide from us. Remember when there was an entire war brewing and she didn’t tell anyone?”

“So, because you’re worried about subterfuge, from a _politician_ , you’ve decided that you’re going to sneak into one of the most heavily defended places on this Stone-forsaken mountain just so you _might_ get a bit of juicy info?” Cadash asked.

“Yup.”

“That sounds… like an absolutely terrible plan,” Cadash deadpanned.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Look, even if you could somehow sneak into the Divine’s personal quarters, you’re running the risk, you, a Dalish spy, of being caught, by a Seeker. Do you even know what Seekers do to mages or Templars? Let me tell you, I work with raw lyrium, and the stuff I’ve seen that do to people is prettier.”

“I won’t get caught,” Ellana replied. “I’m good at being stealthy, and eavesdropping’s nothing compared to

“Surprising amount of confidence for a stick-twirler.”

“Hey, I was training to be a hunter before my magic emerged,” Ellana protested, stung. “And even then, all Dalish are expected to be able to sneak. That’s who we are. The sneaky forest elves, remember?”

Cadash was unimpressed.

“Let’s say you somehow manage to break into the Divine’s quarters. What’s the likelihood you find anything of particular importance that you couldn’t just find out later during the Conclave?”

“About the same likelihood of a dwarf smuggler running into a Dalish spy and the two not instantly killing each other?”

“Point taken,” Cadash sighed. “Go ahead, whatever,” he said with a gesture. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“By which you mean you’ll be on the battlements, as far away as possible and ready with a rope to jump off the mountain in case I get caught,” Ellana supplied.

Cadash grinned. “Hey, career criminal, remember? I can’t afford to let people know I was cavorting around with a tree-hugger, hurts my reputation.”

Ellana rolled her eyes. “Creators forbid we hurt your _reputation_. If we take that away from you, there’s so little left.”

“Oh, a _little_ joke! Never heard that one before.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Ellana reassured the unimpressed dwarf. “Just start working on your apology for when I find out that the Divine has, I don’t know, a secret lover or something.”

“Thanks for that image,” Cadash groaned. “Because I really wanted to picture a sixty-something-year-old holy priest having someone chant her light.”

Ellana was still chuckling under her breath as she stole into the Divine’s apartments.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it. Remember to leave reviews telling me what you liked and what you hated! It's important for improvement!  
> Next chapter will be introducing Ellana Lavellan.


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